


we make do

by jehoney



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Fluff, Gen, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Sibling Bonding, Some angst, fp is shitty, jb is the coolest kid around, jelly comes over and jug cooks and they have a chat that's it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 17:20:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,073
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10252808
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jehoney/pseuds/jehoney
Summary: “Dad’s not strict, he’s irrational.” Jug cuts her off, and she pushes her plate towards him, so he can finish what she’s left.“What does that mean?” she asks, and Jug wants to say ‘It means he’s a raging alcoholic involved in some less than legal activities, leaving him with no capacity to be a real father to his children’, but he doesn’t.“Like… unpredictable. Like you don’t know what he’s gonna do next.”“Oh.”jellybean comes round. jughead cooks. families are screwy.





	

**Author's Note:**

> ep 7 gave me a lot of Feelings so i had to write these two having some serious bonding time.
> 
> rated T for some swears and FP making a brief appearance as the asshole that he is
> 
> ****i realised I posted this twice lmao but I've deleted the other one ! ****

Sometimes Jughead thinks Jellybean’s got a thirty-year-old trapped inside of her, peering out from behind hazel eyes into the world. She’s ten years old, and wears a watch, for God’s sakes, a proper, gears and cogs wristwatch. I mean, who wears those anymore? Then Jughead remembers his own whoopee cap, and thinks that maybe the Jones’ have a family tendency towards outdated accessories.

She even sits like an adult, the way she is now on the battered, beat-up couch, ankle on her knee and glass of juice resting in her hand on the sofa arm. Jug’s stealing glances from the kitchenette as he cooks, keeping as many pictures in his head as possible, because God knows the next time Mom’s going to let her visit, and she already looks so different from the last time, hair chopped to just below her shoulders and a brightness in her cheeks from not living in this shitty trailer 24/7. So, as he cuts up the peppers and adds them to his miserable attempt at a stir fry, half of his attention is on her, and the film she’s watching. X-Men, he realises, and smirks at her good taste.

Mom’s at her night classes, and only agreed to let Jellybean come because Jug swore Dad would be out – he always is on a Friday night, the Serpents like to take advantage of free shots before 11 at the bar – so Jug knows he’s in a precarious position. Looking after himself has never really been a strong suit, but he’s managed, except now he has to make sure Jellybean’s fed well, and has a place to sleep in this miserable dump, and won’t go home to their grandparents passing on how infrequently Jug stays here himself, preferring his almost permanent residence with the Andrews’. He did consider inviting her there, but Archie’s got a game tonight (Jug still feels guilty for missing it) and there’s too much wrong with having your little sister stay at your kind-of boyfriend’s house, especially when he’s not actually in. 

Jesus, he’s stressed out, and she’s only staying for one night.

He starts on the leek next, and as he’s slicing the trailer door rattles, and FP stumbles through, the sinister side of tipsy as he crosses the room to where Jug is standing by the stove. He doesn’t even register Jellybean, who looks up at him, but knows better than to say anything as he lurches through, and Jug’s heart is pounding because he’s not supposed to be home yet, he’s not supposed to be here.

“What’re you doing home, Dad?” he asks, chest and speech tight as the man throws open the kitchen drawers, evidently searching for something.

“Left my wallet,” he mumbles, words slurring and Jughead spots it on one of the drawers FP’s already looked in, though evidently not terribly successfully.

“Here.”

He presses it to the man’s chest, desperate for him to leave as quickly as he came. He won’t ruin this for him, he can’t, but instead FP shoves the wallet into his back pocket and leans against the laminate counter, watching Jug return to chopping vegetables, tersely.

“That’s a lotta stir fry for one guy.” He notes, and Jughead knows he’s trying to prod at him, provoke him.

“Well half of it’s for Jellybean,” he replies in an attempt to be measured, focussing his eyes on the chopping board, and can’t help but add something cutting, “You’d know she’s on the couch if you paid any attention when you came in.”

Something in FP’s expression shifts, and he takes a look into the living area, as if he thinks Jug’s lying to him and needs proof to confirm it. Jellybean raises a hand in a tentative wave, and FP waves back, with a: “Hey, sweetie.” And that’s that. Familial love.

When he turns back, he’s so close that Jughead can smell the whiskey on his breath, and a hand clamps on his shoulder. It’s a sign of affection, possibly, or maybe just a way for his dad to look at him without swaying or falling over.

“You know, you’re a young man now…”

And in Jug’s head he’s shouting ‘Get out’ ‘Go away’ ‘Don’t ruin this for me’.

“And now that you’re an adult, I’m going to treat you like I do the rest of my adult… acquaintances.”

And he’s so close that Jug can count the broken blood vessels in his unfocused eyes, search them for some semblance of the man that used to drive him to school, before Jug was the one to drive him home.

“So if you decide to disrespect me, that’s something I can’t stand for, Forsythe.”

There’s something almost comical about the way his lips stumble around the word, the word that’s now the only thing they seem to share, and even now they’ve both abandoned it in their own separate ways. And Jug nods, hurriedly, because the sooner he agrees, the sooner FP leaves, and the less Jellybean has to witness of what her father has become.

So, he turns back to the counter, under the impression that the lecture has finished, but a heavy hand comes for the back of his neck and his reflex is instinctive, whipping back around fast, the knife in his hand suddenly raised and trembling between them. It’s a physical miscommunication, because this was never the position Jug intended to end up in, he’d forgotten he was even holding the knife, but they’re here now, and his hand is shaking before he rests it back on the chopping board, and FP lets out a low laugh.

“You fuckin’ threatening me?”

It’s quiet, and spoken with narrowed eyes, quiet enough that Jellybean won’t hear and Jug is shaking his head because he knows that for all that alcohol slows reflexes, drunk hands move hard and fast. And then FP is gone, pressing a kiss to the top of Jellybean’s head as he lurches towards the door, backing out of it with a single index finger pointed at Jughead, and motorbikes growling outside.

He can feel Jellybean’s eyes on him as he exhales shakily, scraping the leek into the pan and heating it, but she doesn’t say anything until he brings the dishes through, setting them down on the coffee table. They sit on the carpet, for wont of a dining table, and Jug thinks that maybe he should’ve taken her to Archie’s after all, where there’s clean rugs and furniture and non-alcoholic fathers.

“What was that?” she asks, after shutting off the TV. They’ve got precious little time together, so they’re not to waste it.

“Nothing.” He says into his meal, and looks up to see her raising an eyebrow at him, in such a dead-on impression of Betty that he has to smile.

They eat, and Jughead realises that maybe his cooking skills aren’t as terrible as he thought, because the chicken is, at least, cooked. Then:

“Does he hit you?”

And Jug nearly chokes on his mouthful, but the expression on her face is deadly serious, and she stares him out for an answer. He twists some noodles around his fork, and uses it to gesture to her plate.

“Is it any good?”

She sets down her fork.

“Don’t change the subject, Jug.”

“We’re not gonna get into this, JB,” he says firmly, and he can see the flash in her eyes when he uses her new nickname, but she’s still got this abnormally mature concern on her face, that kind of makes him feel bad. He should worry about her, and he does, even though she’s living in the safest set up he can imagine. Not the other way around.

“Your hair looks good.” he manages, around a mouthful, and she shrugs.

“I wanted it shorter, but Grandma said no.”

The way she scowls is so familiar to him that he grins, and she shoots him a glare, thinking that he’s smiling at her misfortune. He holds up his hands in mock surrender.

“What’s it like, living with them?”

“Oh my God,” Her eyes widen, like she can’t express how frustrated she is. “So I got a C- on my math test, and they took away my record player!”

And Jug shakes his head and laughs, because she’s ten years old and listening to vinyl, and he doesn’t think he’s ever been prouder. His big brother concern kicks in, though, like it’s programmed into his brain.

“How come you’re getting Cs, kid? You can do better than that.”

“Don’t call me that,” she’s scowling again, and prodding at the food with a fork. Jug realises that maybe his portion size is about three times too big for a ten-year-old. “And I don’t know, Grandma and Grandpa are kinda strict. Not as strict as Dad, but…”

“Dad’s not strict, he’s irrational.” Jug cuts her off, and she pushes her plate towards him, so he can finish what she’s left.

“What does that mean?” she asks, and Jug wants to say ‘It means he’s a raging alcoholic involved in some less than legal activities, leaving him with no capacity to be a real father to his children’, but he doesn’t.

“Like… unpredictable. Like you don’t know what he’s gonna do next.”

“Oh.”

And when he gets up from the floor to take the dishes through to the sink, she follows him, hopping up to sit on the counters that are so cheap, he’s not sure they’ll hold her weight. She puts soap suds on his hat, he wipes them on her nose and she laughs, a high, joyous thing that the trailer hasn’t heard in months, maybe ever. Once they’ve washed up, it becomes a soap bubble war, until the lino is slippery and they’ve both got wet faces, and Jug’s cheeks hurt from smiling.

“Where are they from?” Jellybean asks, breathlessly, and Jug sees that the neckline of his shirt has shifted to show the purple bruises on his clavicle so he adjusts it, hurriedly, and lifts his hat to run a hand through his damp hair.

“Wait, did Dad…?” she trails off, and Jug has to place both hands on her shoulders firmly and laugh in the face of her confusion.

“No! No, JB, they’re… something different,” and Jug doesn’t even want to know how she understands what he’s getting at, but her eyes spark up and she practically jumps on the edge of the counter.

“Who? Oh my God, Juggie, do you have a girlfriend?!”

He wishes the ground would just swallow him up, and presses the heel of his palm to the bridge of his nose.

“Kind of?”

There’s a stupid smile that accompanies his shrug, and Jellybean’s looking so smug, legs swinging, dark hair falling in front of her shrewd eyes.

“Do you have… a boyfriend?”

But Jug’s not about to try and explain the complex workings of whatever’s happening between Archie, Betty and him, especially when he doesn’t fully understand it himself, and he’s also not one to be interrogated by a ten-year-old, so he picks her up with a shriek, carrying her over his shoulder and flopping her back down on the sofa, grabbing the remote and switching the sound back on.

“Watch your dumb movie, stupid.” He grins, affectionately, but as he turns to go back into the kitchen, he feels her hands on his sleeve holding him back.

“Watch it with me?”

And when the alternative is wiping down the counters, there’s really no choice in the matter.

He ends up with his legs stretched out and resting on the coffee table, lay back against the cushions with Jellybean pillowed on his chest, and although he’s seen it a million times, they both laugh in all the same places, make the same comments they do every time, her words getting lost in the fabric of his shirt but the magic of sibling connection meaning that he doesn’t miss a single one. Then, just before the end, he realises he’s talking to himself and she’s asleep, drooling slightly on him, so he scoops her up into the bedroom, and climbs underneath the covers beside her.

She’ll be gone tomorrow, out of the cramped crappiness this place has become, but for now he can hear her breathing against him, feel her hands grasping his t-shirt.

For now, he can run his fingers through her hair. And he’s never going to take that for granted again.


End file.
